From Where It Comes
I am pushed back into the thickness
of the quiet of the room beyond the light
that shows below the closed door,
and it is cool as well as dim
and my back doesn't hurt much...
I am listening to chords
and my heart is beating time
to the music as my mind's eyes
follow the waves of the notes
and the sounds as they skirt the walls
and float by in haste,
now more slowly,
then settle down to float like leaves
on the water....
I see the echoes of the notes
as they wrap around themselves,
climbing up higher as they grow in height,
stretching from the base
of the cracks in the floorboards,
to the old chandelier in the center
of the ceiling, then wrapping tendrils there,
only to fall down in lazy circles
looking for a safe place to land
that will not interfere with plans unmade
and dreams that frighten.
From the corners of the walls and ceiling
tears of varied pastels are squeezed out
by the mind,
reflecting the light from a dozen sunrises
and then shaded by as many moonlit shadows,
until it is mixed all together,
sun and moon,
light and shadow, as by a hand stirring it all
in a bowl, the eyes marveling at the colours
and the swirls of bright and dark pastels,
if you can imagine that...
it truly is beautiful to see,
but you must be there to see.
Perhaps that is why no one tells of this
or speaks of it.
I just thought they were possibly selfish
and wanting to keep the miracle to themselves,
but now I believe they have
no way of describing it.
I am certainly having the devil's own time
in doing so, but I am feeling very well,
the things I am saying, and I am almost
smiling in my mind at what
I am allowing myself to see and feel....
This is not something for the weak or fearful;
it can pull a mind apart,
as when shredding an oak limb in the wind,
unwrapping the bark and the grain
and splitting it all to let it fall
and go sailing aloft, perhaps to another place,
falling eventually to gravity's pull...
then laying softly by a brook
where bubbles are formed as the water climbs
over stones and pebbles at the bottom...
sun-dancing on the surface, but roiling
beneath and between the sun and the stones.
No matter - it is enough that I see this,
that I hear this, that I feel this...
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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack
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